


gentle insanities

by birdlaced



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, But he doesn't think he deserves him, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley knows Aziraphale loves him, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mutual Pining, Napping, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Picnics, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-11 00:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20537363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdlaced/pseuds/birdlaced
Summary: Aziraphale folded his hands neatly on the table and said, “Crowley I’m in love with you,” with the same casual tone one might use to regard on the current weather.Crowley choked on a biscuit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I listened to Aldonza from Man of La Mancha and my brain ran rampant with some of the lyrics. What can I say? I love Crowley angst; and musical theater lol.

_ You have shown me the sky_  
_But what good is the sky_  
_To a creature who'll never  
_ _Do better than crawl?_

_Aldonza - Man of La Mancha_

Crowley wasn’t a fool. That was to say, he wasn’t as oblivious as he pretended to be, because you see Crowley did in fact have eyes. Yellow and serpentine perhaps, but eyes nonetheless—and he could see it plain as day that his angel loved him. Although, maybe that wasn’t the right term. Aziraphale loved everything. He was an angel, after all. It was his heavenly duty to love all of Her creatures, and that technically included ex-angels of the demonic stock (as opposed to ex-angels of the angelic stock, which Crowley fancied Aziraphale to be a fine example of one, if such a thing were to exist). So of course Aziraphale loved Crowley; but he was also _in _love with Crowley.

It went without saying that Crowley most definitely needed to put a stop to all of Aziraphale's less than holy thoughts—of which there were plenty. Crowley could taste them on his tongue. They weren't sexual, mind you, as Crowley could sense the difference between the sinful thoughts (and it wasn't as though angels bothered with such things, _ right_?) but they were wrong, in some capacity. Had to be. Crowley wouldn’t have been able to sense them otherwise. And they needed to be stopped.

This was, of course, all for the sake of preserving a friendship six millennia in the making. But it had proved to become more difficult over the months, years and decades that followed to rebuff the angel’s affections, as Aziraphale was rather persistent. Once he set his mind to something, he'd be damned before he changed it for at least a couple hundred years. It was why he still had that frumpy coat of his, along with that tartan bow tie that went out of style decades ago. Crowley wasn’t one to back down from a challenge though, so they set about playing their game. A game that, keep in mind, Aziraphale had no idea he was even playing, but had been winning for the last eighty years nonetheless.

As it was, any time Aziraphale got rather wanton with his affections—to the point where certainly only a blind man wouldn't notice the nature of his feelings—Crowley simply turned the other cheek. He was quite the expert at playing the fool, you see. Which wasn't really something to be proud of, but Crowley was, so there you go. A quick and nonchalant change of subjects here or a subtle rejection there were usually enough to stop the angel, but when those weren't enough Crowley would do his best to remind the angel that demons weren't capable of love, in any capacity. This of course wasn't true, as Crowley loved many things, including, but not limited to: his Bentley, vintage wine, horticulture (that one took him by surprise), those little donut holes from the bakery around the corner from Aziraphale’s bookshop, Aziraphale's face after a good meal, the dainty look of Aziraphale's fingers around the spine of a book, _ Aziraphale_.

And so came his second glaring issue with Aziraphale's feelings: Crowley reciprocated them. With every fibre of his demonic soul—and with the bit of angelic-ness that refused to burn up in the Fall—Crowley _ loved _ Aziraphale. He ached to be with him; ached to hold him and listen to the silly nit complain about people trying to buy books from his _ bookshop _ for the rest of eternity, but that simply wasn't to be. Surely this wasn't part of God's Ineffable Plan, for an angel and a demon to just faff off and live together in romantic bliss over a little bookshop in Soho.

Demons and angels weren’t even meant to rub elbows, let alone engage in romantic trysts with each other. There was no telling what it would do, especially to Aziraphale. Crowley was already Fallen, what was the worst that could happen to him? Sure, Hell would be pissed, but then Crowley could just explain (i.e., lie through his teeth) that he’d tempted an angel, the holiest of beings bar only God Herself, and shouldn’t that actually be something to be rewarded rather than punished for? He would leave out the bit that if anyone was doing the tempting, it was certainly not him. The angel had more devil in him than anyone could ever know, and Aziraphale was lucky that Crowley had so much restraint.

Crowley was sure that this is what was best for the two, and he doubted God would even allow it. She would probably smite Crowley on the spot and Fell Aziraphale not a moment after. For surely Aziraphale would be cast out of Heaven for simply loving Crowley. God could be a bit testy when Her angels went against Her wishes—the fact that Crowley was Crowley rather than Crowley-from-_before _ was testament to that. The demon wouldn’t do that to his angel. He _ couldn’t_. Yes, Aziraphale loved Crowley, but he also loved being an angel, and Crowley would never want to take that away from him.

At least, Crowley could find respite in the fact that because he was a demon, Aziraphale couldn't sense any of his virtuous emotions; couldn't sense his love. Aziraphale could search and search all he wanted, but Crowley's insides would be as empty as a firepit, full of nothing but ash. This was where the rumor that demons couldn't love came from. When angels realized they couldn't feel anything from the demons, they assumed it was because the demons were no longer capable of such emotions. Demons _ could _ feel love though, but they did nothing to set the angels straight, and so it went. This is what most likely kept Aziraphale from taking that final step and putting his feelings into words—_confessing_.

Little miracles, he supposed. Rather ironic really, that God was doing him this solid, even if that wasn't Her intention. He could almost forgive Her for tossing him out on his ass because She allowed him to stay in Aziraphale's life for six thousand years on this little technicality alone. Crowley would be content with another six thousand years of _ this_, this slightly unsatisfying friendship with Aziraphale that yes, did leave him wanting so much more, but that he was also extremely grateful for. Crowley could spend eternity with Aziraphale, and perhaps he might.

They had the time, after all.

* * *

At least, this was until the world started to end, and then a little Antichrist with a scruff of blonde hair decided that it rather shouldn't. 

* * *

Crowley could admit that he was genuinely surprised when Aziraphale had taken him up on his offer to come to the flat. Sure, there was nowhere for Aziraphale to go, given the fact that his bookshop was now literally a shell of its former self, but that did little to change how Crowley felt. In fact, he had taken to almost constantly nursing a drink in his hand to cope, while Aziraphale attempted to make himself comfortable in the flat, sitting primly at his desk and looking out of place among the sleek blackness of the rooms.

Not even a couple of hours ago they were facing off against the Devil himself, helping Adam stop the Apocalypse and restoring peace to the mortal world. Now they were sitting in Crowley’s flat as if it was just any old Sunday, awaiting their own personal Judgement Day. After all, there was no way that Below and Above didn’t know where they were. Everyone was simply biding their time, waiting for the proverbial dust to settle and then? Then there would be Heaven and Hell to pay.

Aziraphale had then made Crowley’s nerves worse by saying, “Crowley, I’ve been thinking about Agnes Nutter’s prophecy, and I think I’ve finally cracked it," after having been silent most of the bus ride up here, clutching the demon’s hand without a word.

Crowley shuffled back over to his bar and poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass, bringing it over to the desk. After downing most of it in a single go and ignoring the burn in his throat as it went down and settled in his stomach, he said, “Oh, do tell.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with a paperweight on Crowley’s desk that was more for decoration than its namesake. He didn’t sound particularly excited to share this information, which made Crowley even more anxious. Perhaps it was in his best interest to pour himself another glass. “I don’t suppose you’re opposed to switching bodies, are you?”

_ God_—it was definitely a good idea to get another glass; or a couple more glasses. Aziraphale had officially lost his marbles.

Somehow he managed to say to the angel, “I’m sorry, I think I just misheard you because it sounds like you just said we should switch _ bodies_.”

“Now, hear me out here—” Aziraphale started, but Crowley was having none of it.

“Are you trying to get usss both killed? Isss that what it isss, Angel?” Crowley hissed, leaning closely into Aziraphale’s personal space. Aziraphale, bless his heart, did have the good sense to at least look guilty. Yet he simultaneously seemed unashamed and without any fear, staring Crowley right in the eyes, even though he couldn't see them through the tint of his shades. Crowley broke the gaze first, straightening up and raking a hand through his hair. “You’ve had foolish ideas before Aziraphale, but this one? This one truly takes the cake. Have you given it no thought as to what it would do to me? Your vessel could very well kill me. And imagine what mine would do to _ you_?”

“And what, pray tell, would happen to me that would be worse than _ dying_?” Aziraphale asked with a scoff.

Crowley wanted to say more, wanted to warn Aziraphale that Crowley’s own vessel would undoubtedly cause his Fall, but his mouth wouldn’t work. He couldn’t get the words out, could scarcely stand to even think of it. Betraying Heaven hadn’t caused him to Fall. Loving a demon hadn’t caused him to Fall. But this? This was just too much. This would be the final nail in Aziraphale’s coffin, and Crowley couldn’t condone this.

Aziraphale paid his inner turmoil little mind, and continued, “This is all of course moot because I am sure this will work—”

“How can you be so certain?” Crowley snapped.

“Because Agnes Nutter said it would,” Aziraphale said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. It wasn’t, by the way. “And she has never been wrong. Hundreds of years worth of predictions, and each of them right on the money.”

“That may be true, but how are we to know that switching bodies is even what she meant?” Crowley argued, putting down the whiskey glass on the table. “I’m not going to risk it all for the words of a woman who has been dead for over four hundred years.”

Aziraphale groaned. “Crowley, my dear, don’t you trust me?”

Crowley hated when Aziraphale did that. Because the bottom line was that Crowley _ did _trust Aziraphale; with his life, even. After all, Crowley loved the angel, would follow him to the ends of the earth. All Aziraphale had to do was tell Crowley to jump, and the demon would ask how high.

“Of course I trust you.”

“Then trust me when I tell you that this will work,” Aziraphale said, standing up. He reached out, clasping their hands together. Touching Aziraphale was too much. Crowley felt like he was burning, blood boiling and skin blistering, but he refused to let go. If this was to be the last time he got to touch Aziraphale, he refused to waste a single second of it. “Please, Crowley. It hardly matters if this will kill us, because I’m sure that Heaven and Hell will kill us come morning if we don’t try _ something_.”

Crowley had crumbled, as he always did. He asked, “How are we doing this?”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale said, looking rather apprehensive. “I was hoping you would take the reigns there. I have a very limited experience with… possession.”

“You’ve done this before, why do you need my help?”

“I did so under very extenuating circumstances, I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale huffed. “I was very nervous and I don’t know that I could repeat it again without cocking it up.”

“It’s easy, you just—” Crowley gestured vaguely, shrugging a shoulder. “Do it? I’m not very good at explaining Angel, you know this.” Aziraphale fixed him with a glare. “Just—I don’t know, focus on your essence, and just push it out of your body and into mine? Separate your soul from your body. It’s just a vessel, after all, so think of it as one. Reach out to me. I’ll do the same.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Under his breath he said, “Reach out to you…”

At first, nothing happened.

Then warmth burst through his fingers like crackles of energy at the point where their skin met. It was a pleasant feeling at first, like the waves of warmth coming off a fire pit in the autumn. Then it got hotter and hotter, started stinging like the pain that came after a small burn. Crowley screwed his eyes shut and ignored the pounding of his heart. He wouldn’t admit to being afraid, but he was. God, he was _ terrified_. The pain never advanced past that manageable burn though, and for that he was grateful. Then suddenly there was a pull or a push—Crowley wasn’t sure which it was— and something clicked into place, warmth burning away into nothingness. Crowley still kept his eyes shut, scared of what came next.

“Cold,” Aziraphale murmured, but his voice was not his own.

Crowley opened his eyes only to look up at his own face.

“We did it,” he said, and then brought a hand up to his neck when his voice wasn’t something he was used to. The vibrations of his vocal cords felt off; smooth as silk and deep as rich chocolate. It was nice, don’t get him wrong. It was just… different.

Crowley had expected to feel uncomfortable in Aziraphale’s vessel; and he did, to an extent. The limbs were shorter than his own, and he was plumper around his middle, but it still just felt like a human body. There would probably be a small learning curve, but eventually Crowley was sure he could really sink into the bones and flesh of this body without much issue. Like a pubescent running through the awkward motions of puberty, desperately clawing to get to the other side of it. Eventually they would get there, and Crowley would as well.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, wobbly and unsure. It sounded very un-Crowley-like, but they had the rest of the night to work on it. The corner of his lip curled down, uneasy confusion splayed across his face. This was a lot more Crowley-like, if a bit stiffer than usual. “This feels…”

Aziraphale didn’t bother to finish his sentence, which was fine by Crowley because that was when he finally noticed them. They’d been muffled at first, but now they certainly weren’t. Being in Aziraphale's vessel made the sinful thoughts that resided within its occupant's mind all the more strong. They lapped against Crowley's consciousness like gentle waves, soft but continuous; never ending. Crowley could taste them on the roof of his tongue, could smell all the intricate scents they gave off and—oh. It was faint, tucked away like a long forgotten memory, but it was there all the same: a sexual thought. It called out to him like a long forgotten swan song, and it sang _ his _ name. It called out, _ Crowley, Crowley, Crowley— _

No. _ No_. It hardly mattered if Aziraphale had an errant sexual thought about Crowley at some point in the last six millennia. They could still die tomorrow if this plan didn’t work, and even if they didn’t die, Crowley was still too terrified to think that he and Aziraphale could be something different than they were now. So Crowley forced himself to focus on the task at hand, ignoring the ache in his chest.

Aziraphale still seemed to be trapped in his own little world, staring at his own hands—Crowley's hands—with reverence, as if he'd just had a revelation. Crowley couldn’t see his eyes from behind the shades, and he thought maybe he should have taken them off beforehand just so he could drink in the entirety of Aziraphale’s expression when they switched.

“Angel?” Aziraphale’s head snapped up to look at Crowley. “Are you alright?”

“I—” Aziraphale broke off in a strangled noise. “I just—I mean… Yes, yes I’m fine, dear. Sorry, it’s just quite an adjustment.”

“Yes, of course,” Crowley said, highly doubting that Aziraphale was being truthful with him, but they really did have more pressing matters to deal with, so any confrontation about said lie would have to wait. They had to perfect each other’s mannerisms within the next couple of hours if this ruse of theirs was going to work. This would be a lot easier said than done. “So Angel, let’s have it. Give me your best impression of me.”

* * *

It had worked, and Aziraphale had given him this soft contented smile when they switched places that surely would have made Crowley fall in love with him if he wasn’t already there.

They went to the Ritz, afterward.

* * *

The bookshop was back, but Aziraphale said nothing about going back to it after the Ritz, and instead allowed Crowley to lead him back to the flat. To be fair, Crowley hadn’t offered to drive Aziraphale home either, and instead took familiar roads back home. He’d half expected Aziraphale to voice his confusion as to why he wasn’t getting dropped off at the bookshop, but it never came.

So Crowley took Aziraphale back home with him.

Something about Aziraphale had been off ever since they’d switched back. The angel was still an angel, of that Crowley had no doubt, so he knew that wasn’t what was wrong.(this was a relief for Crowley) It didn’t help that Aziraphale refused to mention what had him all wrapped up in his thoughts all throughout dinner. All night the angel had been shooting Crowley furtive glances that didn’t go unnoticed by the demon. He’d even forgone dessert, which was how Crowley knew something was definitely up.

Crowley wanted to say something, he just didn’t know how.

Apropos of nothing, Aziraphale asked, “Which way to the bedroom, if you don’t mind?” and Crowley was kind of shocked the angel bothered to ask. Without a word, Crowley jutted a finger in the direction of his bedroom—which hadn’t been used much in the last week thanks to Armageddon. “Thank you, dear.”

Crowley hadn’t bothered to ask what Aziraphale planned to do in the bedroom, but in all honesty, he hadn’t expected it to be what most people generally used bedrooms for. So it was quite a shock for the demon when he peeked into the bedroom a little while later and saw Aziraphale slumped on the bed, burrowed under the comforter. For a moment, Crowley was worried that something had happened in the brief time that he’d allowed the angel out of his sight, but when he’d hurried over to the bedside he found that this wasn’t the case.

Aziraphale was asleep. This was rare. In fact, Crowley had never seen the angel sleep in all the millennia they've been acquainted. He'd been convinced since their time in Rome that Aziraphale simply never indulged in this particular human pastime as he did with many others, and yet there he was, sprawled out on Crowley's bed as though he belonged there (Crowley certainly felt as though he did belong, looking pristine and perfect among Crowley's fashionable little throw pillows).

Crowley couldn't cope with this.

It didn't help that his wretched heart and brain were in cahoots and conspiring against him; because, you see, Crowley was having _ thoughts_. Thoughts were a normal thing to have, you might be thinking—and they were, more often than not. These particular thoughts, however? They were treacherous in nature, and something he'd spent the better half of a century squashing like an insect under his snake skin boots. See, the world was supposed to end, but then it didn't, and then Crowley and Aziraphale managed to get out from under the thumbs of their respective bosses and cut out a little corner of the world that they could call their own—and Crowley was _ thinking_, dammit.

_ 'Aziraphale turned his back on his own kind and he's still an angel,' _ his twisted little brain sang to him, trying to tempt the original tempter. _ 'We switched vessels and look at him, angelic as always. Surely we could take him—could have him as we truly want to have him. He won't Fall. Let's tell him, let's be his, and have him be ours. Let's—' _

"Shut up," Crowley snapped at his too loud thoughts. "Shut up, shut up, _ shut up_."

Aziraphale stirred. Crowley froze, watching the angel wrinkle his little nose and furrow his pale brows before his face smoothed over and he let out a soft snore. Fuck that was adorable. Would it be inappropriate to take a photograph? Probably. Crowley was still considering it though, as a little memento for what was probably the first and last time Aziraphale would indulge in sleep.

At least he was until he remembered what his brain had been doing to his poor nerves just a moment prior, and all fluffy disgustingly romantic thoughts were violently murdered. How dare his brain do this to him? This was mutiny, must be. Tragically, this wasn't like his plants and Crowley couldn't just threaten his brain with the garbage disposal, lest he be inconveniently discorporated. Hell certainly wouldn't be issuing him any new bodies anytime soon, and Crowley was quite fond of this one, even if it was betraying him currently. 

It's not like it mattered, anyway. Crowley wasn't going to ever tell Aziraphale how he felt. Never mind the possibility of Aziraphale Falling—which he now had his doubts about, as his brain really did make a good point (unfortunately)—Crowley was terrified of the idea of changing the parameters of his six thousand year relationship with the angel. There. Are you happy? Out comes the pathetic truth. Crowley was scared. He was scared of what it meant to be in a romantic relationship with Aziraphale. What if it wasn't what either of them was expecting, and suddenly they couldn't bear to be in the same room? What if it _ was _ everything they were expecting—and so much more—but what if they couldn't be together due to unforeseen forces? It would be a lot different for Crowley to have to live without Aziraphale's love after getting a taste of it. He couldn't bear it.

No, no, it was best that things stay as they always were.

(There was another reason, one Crowley didn't like to dwell on unless he was alone and clutching his second bottle of whiskey. The fact of the matter was that Crowley simply didn't deserve Aziraphale. Didn't deserve his company, didn't deserve his friendship, and certainly didn't deserve his love. 

It didn’t matter that Crowley’s soul ached from the knowledge that he was loved in return. It didn’t matter if there was an Aziraphale shaped hole in him that his heart was yelling for him to fill. It didn’t matter that he knew he could have all of Aziraphale if he wanted to—if he dared to. Crowley didn’t deserve that love, and Aziraphale deserved so much more than Crowley could ever dream about offering. Crowley was a lowly demon, meant to crawl under the earth like an insect and never touch the sky for the rest of eternity. Crowley could never do better than crawl, so to yearn for the sky and one of its beautiful creatures was a fruitless endeavor.

These were the little insecurities he kept tucked away in the back of his heart; the ones that only came out when he was alone and drowning in his thoughts, without Aziraphale's drunken smile to keep him tethered to the present.)

Crowley scowled, thought perhaps that might be enough self loathing for today, and then stalked off to go make Aziraphale some tea for when the angel woke up. First he had to miracle up himself some tea bags; and a kettle; and a kitchen. Aziraphale did warn him to perform miracles only unless it was absolutely necessary, which Crowley thought this was, no matter what the angelic voice was chirping in his ear.

* * *

Later, romantic crisis avoided and tea successfully miracled into existence, Aziraphale stumbled out of Crowley's bedroom, rubbing away the sleep in his eyes. Crowley watched him from the dining room table he'd also bothered to appear, and stood to get the tea while Aziraphale plopped into the empty seat across from him. The angel smacked his lips a couple of times, unused to the grogginess that came after a nap.

"Tea?" Crowley asked, already making the cup. It was one he'd already had stashed away, no miracles required. A gift that was meant for Aziraphale in the 60's that never made it to its intended recipient and instead collected dust in Crowley's cabinet for a couple decades. He, pathetically enough, actually had a few intended-for-Aziraphale-but-never-given-to-Aziraphale items stashed around the flat. It was quite embarrassing, really.

"Yes please," Aziraphale said. "You know, I had the strangest dream. Hadn't the faintest idea angels were capable of dreaming. Can you dream, my dear?"

"I can," Crowley said, handing off the milk and sugar for Aziraphale to fix his drink how he pleased. "Don't really though. Not often, anyhow. What did you dream about?"

Aziraphale poured milk into his tea cup and then reached for three sugar squares. A bit of a sweet tooth, that one.

He said, "You were there, and you were wearing that dreadful black armor—you know the one, dear boy—and you were watching over me while I slept. I must have been a loud sleeper, as I was rather sure I heard you telling me to shut up. Very rude of you, but I suppose it wasn't _ really _ you, as it was just a dream. It did sound so real though. But I don’t know how I could be loud in my _ sleep_."

Crowley almost froze. Almost being the key word. But see, Crowley was a demon, and he was rather quick on his toes as most demons were wont. So instead he said, "Course it was just a dream. I've been conked out on the sofa over there for most of the evening."

"Ah, yes of course," Aziraphale said, nodding his head. He took the tea cup in both hands. "Just a dream. Did you dream about anything, Crowley?"

"Nope," Crowley said, popping the 'p'. “Biscuits?”

“Oh, yes please,” Aziraphale said after blowing on his tea. “Thank you, dear.”

It had been a ploy to get Aziraphale to move on from the topic of his pesky “dream” and so Crowley didn’t actually have any biscuits to be eaten. Still, he got up and hid in the kitchen to miracle up a plateful of warm fresh out of the oven biscuits to avoid Aziraphale’s protests over using his powers when they were supposed to be laying low after successfully fooling their respective offices. Crowley couldn’t be bothered to care anymore though. He was sure in his conviction that they would be left alone. For a little while, at least.

Crowley plopped the plate onto the table. "Biscuits."

Aziraphale reached for one with a pleased smile. Sleep seemed to have done the angel a world of good. Gone was the brooding pout from his lips, replaced with the usual soft curve of the grin that actually belonged there. Crowley watched him chew the biscuit thoughtfully.

“These are good, darling,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley froze. “You can barely taste the miracle it took to make these appear.”

In the last six millennia, Crowley could count on a single hand the amount of times Aziraphale had called him ‘darling’. Dear? Hundreds of times. Dear boy? Thousands. Darling? Once. Crowley steeled himself into convincing himself that the new endearment meant nothing. It didn’t matter what silly mortals called each other because mortal relationships could scarcely be compared to his relationship with Aziraphale.

“Caught me, have you?” Crowley said, going for casual.

Aziraphale’s responding laugh sounded like bells. He reached for another biscuit. It went like that until he’d finished his tea and polished off most of the biscuits—with the exception of the couple Crowley managed to snag for himself—and was wiping crumbs off his lapels. His face held a ruddy smile that was extremely pleasing to look at. Crowley could stare at it all day, and now that they were both free to shirk their past responsibilities, he just might.

At least that was until Aziraphale folded his hands neatly on the table and said, “Crowley I’m in love with you,” with the same casual tone one might use to regard on the current weather.

Crowley choked on a biscuit.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale repeated helpfully.

Crowley felt his heart pounding in his chest, erratic and drowning out all other sounds as it roared in his ears. He stopped it from beating just so he might have a moment to hear himself think. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Aziraphale wasn’t ever supposed to confess. The cold realization that despite all the trouble Crowley had gone through to keep Aziraphale in his life and yet he’d still lost the angel washed over him.

What was Crowley supposed to say?

“I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to tell you,” Aziraphale continued, not giving Crowley room to explain himself. Not that the demon had anything to say. “I was sure you knew. I was so obvious after all, but I still wanted to say it, you see. But I knew you’d turn me down, and that knowledge hurt. Of course it did. How could it not? But I would tell myself, _ ‘Now Aziraphale, you mustn't blame Crowley. It isn’t his fault he could never return your feelings. He’s a demon after all. Even the daftest angels know demons can’t feel love.’ _But imagine my surprise the moment I entered your vessel and found that you were teeming with love. I could feel it everywhere. It was almost overwhelming; and all that love was calling out one name. One singular name. I'm sure you can guess who's name it was.”

"Angel—"

"It was mine," Aziraphale cut him off. His voice sounded far away, distant and elsewhere. "All of that love was for me."

Crowley’s jaw hurt from how tightly he was clenching it. Of all the problems to arise from swapping vessels, Aziraphale discovering Crowley’s feelings for him was not one of the ones he had anticipated. He should have realized it right when they switched. Aziraphale’s thoughts echoed in the vessel for hours, remnants of the angel’s consciousness that Crowley could sift through as he pleased. How could he not realize that his own vessel would be much the same, and without any demonic essence to stop angels from being able to sense any virtuous emotions, Aziraphale would be able to feel it all?

Aziraphale let out a breath—uneven and betraying the calm and collected air that the angel was trying to portray. He asked, softly, “Were you ever going to tell me, Crowley?”

“No,” Crowley croaked, because it was all he could do. Aziraphale did deserve the truth. His angel looked as though he might cry. Gone were the soft smiles and musical laughs from just a moment ago, and Crowley couldn’t bear it. “I was… scared.”

“What could you possibly be afraid of?” Aziraphale asked, pressing for answers. “You knew I loved you, Crowley. You _ had _to know.”

“Of course I knew,” Crowley choked. “That’s not what I was afraid of. I was afraid of what it would mean to love you. If we were to be together and we realized that we didn’t work—not like how we work now—that we wouldn’t be able to get back to it. I didn’t want to lose you, and I was _ scared_. So I made sure nothing ever changed.

“There were times where I’d almost caved, almost told you because I couldn’t bear it. The church. My Bentley, after you gave me the Holy Water. The bar, after you’d been discorporated. The airbase. But telling you meant we were treading uncharted waters and I… I would rather things never changed because then I was sure we would be safe. I could keep you in my life.” The words tumbled out of Crowley. It was like a dam had finally burst in his chest, and he couldn’t shut up. “I’m sorry, angel.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but Crowley realized he wasn’t quite done yet. He quickly said, “And there was one more thing.” Aziraphale blinked, and then nodded, waiting for Crowley to continue. “I was afraid that you loving me would—Well, it would… cause you to Fall.”

Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, Crowley…”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it just to give his hands something to do. “I know what it’s like to Fall, and it’s something I would never willingly put you through. I’m a demon. You’re an angel. It would have been inevitable.”

“Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale said, soft as freshly fallen snow. _ Darling_. There it was again. Two times now. “I’ve been in love with you for decades, probably even longer than that, if I’m being honest. Don’t you think I would have Fallen by now if loving you would make me Fall?”

“Thinking about something and acting upon said thoughts are two very different things,” Crowley argued.

“I’ve touched myself to thoughts of you multiple times,” Aziraphale countered, and that made Crowley freeze and let out a strangled noise. Crowley wanted to stop, wanted to take the time to imagine Aziraphale unwinding himself and coming apart to thoughts of _ him_, but Aziraphale barreled right on through. “Dear boy, I don't think that your worries about us not working aren't completely unwarranted. We are inherently different creatures, but we've known each other for six thousand years, and I doubt an awkward date or two would make me want to remove you from my life."

Crowley felt as though he might vomit. His fingers wrapped around the ear of the chair in front of him, clinging onto the wood so tightly his knuckles were white. He said, "I'm sorry,” because he didn’t know what else to say.

Aziraphale sighed. "It’s okay to be scared, Crowley. I’m scared too. I've spent the better part of the last hundred years trying to convince myself it's not right to love you, but I was wrong. Love is the most beautiful and pure emotion. There can be nothing wrong with loving you, and I know that this is worth any punishment Heaven could dare to inflict upon me.”

“I just—” Crowley said, unsure of how to explain himself in a way to make Aziraphale understand. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I’m a demon, Aziraphale. It’s true I can feel love, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m still just a demon. You deserve more, you deserve better than I could ever hope to give you and I— Angel, I…”

Aziraphale’s sigh was quiet, but the exhale of air still filled the room like a scream. He pushed himself onto his feet and made his way around the table to stand by Crowley, pulling the shades off his face and placing them on the table. The demon was rooted to the spot in fear, eyes boring holes into the surface of the table.

“Crowley, please look at me,” Aziraphale said, so softly that Crowley could do nothing else but obey. He took his hand from the back of the chair, and Crowley’s knuckles flexed in protest. He tried to pull away, but Aziraphale just clung to his hand harder and so Crowley relented, clutching it back. “You’re a demon. You’re not perfect. You will never be perfect. But that doesn’t change that I love you, that I _ know _you. I’ve known you for six thousand years, Crowley. If I didn’t think you were worth it, wouldn’t I have run off by now?”

“I suppose you would have,” Crowley murmured. “I’m sorry for everything. I do love you, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile was hesitant but full of hope, and Crowley wanted to see it grace his face a million more times before he even considered being content.

“I love you too, my silly demon,” Aziraphale said, and hearing Aziraphale vocalize his feelings truly did a number on Crowley’s heart. It was foolish, because Crowley had already known how Aziraphale felt, but hearing it said aloud just made his stomach do flips.

“What happens now?”

“We’ll figure it out, Crowley. We always do,” Aziraphale told him, sounding completely sure of himself. Crowley wished he could boast the same, but his hands were shaking and his back was so stiff it was starting to hurt. Still, like always, Crowley trusted Aziraphale and he believed his angel was right. “Now come here, darling.”

Crowley did.

Aziraphale was up to three darling's.

Having Aziraphale’s arms wrapped tightly around his middle and the angel’s face burrowed unto the crook of his neck, white wispy hair tickling his chin, Crowley was struck with the sudden realization that in six millennia, this was the first time he and Aziraphale had actually ever hugged. Crowley’s heart started beating again and he could feel Aziraphale hum against his bare flesh as the angel could feel the rapid pitter-patter of the demon’s heart. Crowley burrowed his face in Aziraphale's hair, breathing in the scent.

Yes, they would definitely figure it out. Crowley was sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley going through the motions of learning just what it meant to be in a relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was meant to be a stand alone fic but I felt like I wasn't quite done with this story yet, so I decided to write this chapter out as well. I probably won't be adding any more chapters though, I'm quite content with this one.

_ “We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.” ― Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies _

Aziraphale unfurled like a cat, stretching his body taut and reveling at the sensation of joints popping all throughout, jarring him into a more wakeful state. Contrary to what Crowley had assured him would eventually happen, Aziraphale hadn't quite gotten the knack for napping yet, despite having indulged in it half a dozen times by now. It was pleasurable to be sure, if one was careful to sleep in the correct position so as not to develop an inconvenient ache, but Aziraphale hadn’t yet warmed up to the idea of wasting valuable time on unconsciousness just for the hell of it.

_ Time. _ Time was now a valuable commodity, as opposed to something that was, for an immortal creature such as himself, a given truth. _ 'Time would pass, but it should scarcely matter for a being that would never die.' _ That was how Aziraphale had been conditioned to think over the last six millennia—Crowley too; but with the end of the world having come and gone, Aziraphale realized that there might in fact be a finite amount of time that he would be graced with. Aziraphale wanted to spend as much of that allotted time as he could with Crowley. All of it, if possible. Sleep was accomplishing just the opposite, but Crowley had insisted and Aziraphale had indulged him, as he was wont to do these days. He could hardly say no when faced with his beloved's pout.

Aziraphale had slept six times thus far. Once, of his own accord, the night he told Crowley he loved him. It had been a last ditch effort to try and make some sense of the feelings he got from Crowley's vessel when they had switched—yearning, affection, love, _ pure love_. He was just desperate enough to think perhaps sleeping on it would help. It had, miraculously enough. All subsequent naps had been at the behest of Crowley who, as he put it, wished to _ cuddle_. Crowley had hopped into bed with him and plastered himself against Aziraphale’s back, face tucked into the nape of his neck and fingers gripping at the soft skin of his hips. Their burgeoning relationship had not been without either's fair share of toe stepping, but despite the fact that they were fumbling with the newness of their redefined relationship, having Crowley simply exist in his orbit made it all worth it—even when Crowley spend most of the evening snoring gently in his ear. 

“What time is it?” Crowley suddenly asked from his usual spot, draped over Aziraphale like a second skin. It seemed as though Aziraphale’s stretching must have roused Crowley from his slumber. His voice was rough with sleep, and it sent strange trills up Aziraphale’s spine whenever he heard it. Like he said, it was a lot to adjust to.

“It’s morning, my dear, so we best be waking up,” Aziraphale answered, moving to sit up. They’d slept most of the night away after all, and now Aziraphale wanted hot cocoa and to stretch out his limbs. But Crowley had other plans it seemed, because he dug his blunt nails into Aziraphale’s sleeve and pulled him back into the bed, arm reach out and tightening around his middle. The angel landed on the mattress with a shocked exhale of breath._"Crowley?"_

Without a word Crowley turned his body over, quick as a snake, partially climbing on top of Aziraphale and braced his arms either side of his head. He stared down at him, serpentine eyes betraying little about what he might be thinking, and Aziraphale took a moment to admire them. For once, they were free of the shades Crowley usually wore to hide them from humans and their delicate sensibilities. Rarely did he remove them while sober, but they were not conducive to a good night's rest apparently, and so Crowley took them off and folded them up, leaving them on the nightstand next to the bed.

Aziraphale thought his eyes were gorgeous. How could he not? He had rarely gotten to see them once humans invented eyeglasses, and he treated each opportunity he was allowed to see them with the appreciation they deserved. Crowley’s eyes were supernaturally large, the color of marigolds in the summertime, and Aziraphale _ loved _them. The slit pupil, trained on his face without movement, was the color of a black hole. Lovely.

Aziraphale would have been content to stare into Crowley's eyes until the end of time, but it wasn't to be, as Crowley seemed to come to a decision. With the slow decisiveness of a hunter closing in on its prey, he swooped down and captured Aziraphale's lips with his own. Kissing Crowley had yet to lose its novelty, and Aziraphale could be sure in his conviction that it never would. Stars were born, expanded, and exploded in a supernova of color underneath his rib cage as Crowley kissed him, soft and sweet. The demon's slender fingers moved up to curl delicately against the curve of Aziraphale's jaw, thumb idly rubbing against the stubble that had grown in overnight. They had gone further than this before, much further—they'd waited six thousand years and they couldn't wait a second more—but it was something about these gentle displays of affection that made tears burn at the corner of Aziraphale's eyes.

Crowley deepened the kiss. His tongue, pliant and forked, licked at the seams of Aziraphale's lips, the tips of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, the flat of his tongue. Aziraphale was so much in love with Crowley, and to be here now, revelling in the demon's unadulterated love and no longer hindered by the circumstances of their existence, occasionally it felt like more than Aziraphale could bear. He was willingly drowning in Crowley—lost in the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his pleasure. It was too much, yet never enough at the same time. The heat pooling in Aziraphale was akin to the sometimes pleasant sting of overexposure to sunlight.

It was a newer sensation, coupling with another body. Aziraphale had experimented with his own vessel of course, but he never had any interest in including anyone else in on his sexual gratification. Until Crowley, that is. Crowley owned him, body and soul, and Aziraphale held no complaints there.

Crowley pulled away to stare at Aziraphale once more, eyes glittering with some unspoken reverence at the sight of the angel willingly spread out underneath him. His lips were wet, and Aziraphale couldn't help but stare at them. His arousal at seeing Crowley’s freshly kissed mouth almost surely painted him in deep crimson, from the tips of his ears to the apples of his cheeks. Crowley ran a fingertip from one to the other, lips curling in a private sort of smile.

He said, "Stay in bed with me, love,” and so Aziraphale did.

* * *

They went on that picnic, eventually. It had only taken them about sixty years, but Aziraphale was busy finishing off his third finger sandwich and he hadn’t the time to consider those torturous decades of thinking Crowley couldn’t love him back. Crowley was watching him—a half finished flute of champagne dangling loosely in his fingers—with a thinly veiled interest.

The antique powder blue quilt they were sitting on belonged to Aziraphale, something he’d picked up in France some odd years back. Atop it rested a still steaming cherry pie, an array of sandwiches filled with different meats and cheeses, some donut holes from that shop Crowley loved so dearly, freshly cut fruit and an exorbitant amount of alcohol. The black wicker picnic basket that Aziraphale had packed full of their food belonged to Crowley, funnily enough, and was resting at the corner of the quilt to keep the wind from riling it up.

“Would you like something, dear?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to quite the spread of food he had procured for the occasion. Most of it had been purchased, because despite the fact that Aziraphale adored a good meal, he was rather rubbish at preparing one himself. No, his skills began and ended with a decent hot cocoa, and that was that. “I can’t very well finish this by myself.”

(He probably could, actually. He thought it prudent not to mention this, however.)

Throughout the millennia, Aziraphale had come to notice that Crowley rarely indulged in eating. Aziraphale had spent the better part of six thousand years trying to tempt Crowley into trying new foods. The demon had always relented, but no food or drink seemed to stick quite like alcohol had; and yet, every time Aziraphale had asked Crowley to accompany him when he was feeling rather peckish, Crowley would come. He would come without complaint and sit at the table, ordering nothing more than an appetizer that would, more often than not, end up being pushed towards Aziraphale when his own order was not enough. Aziraphale had to wonder just what Crowley was getting out of their dinner dates, sitting around with little to do as Aziraphale had his fill of a new and exciting meal.

“No thank you,” Crowley answered airily, bringing the glass to his lips. He downed the rest of his drink and reached for the chilled champagne resting in the bucket by his legs. “Top you off?”

Aziraphale glanced down at his own drink, momentarily distracted. Without the angel noticing, his drink had all but vanished. “Oh, yes please. Thank you, darling.”

Crowley finished pouring their drinks and the two toasted, as they often did nowadays. They had a lot to be thankful for, after all.

Aziraphale watched Crowley idly pop a donut hole into his mouth every now and then as the afternoon continued, but not making a move to touch any of the other food. They went through the first bottle of champagne fairly quickly and Crowley had popped off to get another bottle from the Bentley. When he came back, he poured them both champagne that was miraculously chilled despite having been in the car for an hour.

“Crowley, dear, why don't you eat very much? When we go out, I mean," Aziraphale said after Crowley sat back down on the quilt. Wet condensation dripped down the champagne flute and onto his fingers. "I would hate for you to have to force yourself on these outings just for me when you evidently get nothing out of it."

Crowley snorted at that, feigning a casual air about him, but Aziraphale could see the tips of his ears redden and spread to the high points of his cheeks. That only ever happened when the demon was feeling bashful about something. In fact, Aziraphale had only ever seen the demon blush like that when they were being intimate, Crowley still being unused to Aziraphale’s tenacious sexual nature (it had taken them both by surprise, to be quite honest).

"Trust me, I get a lot out of it," Crowley promised after a moment, and, as if to prove his point, he reached down and plucked a piece of pineapple off the tray of cut fruit, bringing it up to Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale took the fruit into his mouth, pressing an errant kiss against Crowley's fingertips. Crowley leaned back, pleased as can be, and licked the juices off his fingers. "See, Angel? A lot to be gained here," he said nonchalantly, but the blush upon his cheeks intensified.

"Yes. Yes of course," Aziraphale said breathlessly. He did see what Crowley meant, and it was suddenly feeling rather hot under his coat. He was feeling hot all over, actually. Aziraphale downed his champagne after realizing he was ready to pack up and call it a day so they could go to Crowley's flat and stay there for the rest of the day, and perhaps even the following one as well.

"Another sandwich, love?" Crowley asked, looking like the snake that caught the canary.

Aziraphale truly detested his beloved sometimes.

* * *

Visiting Adam wasn’t something they did often, but seeing as he was about to bring about Armageddon a couple of months ago, they thought it prudent to pop in every now and then. It was also always nice to see the boy, who was the only one who seemed to remember with great clarity just what had actually transpired the day the world was to end. The first time Aziraphale and Crowley had strolled by the yard where he and the Them were playing, they hadn’t really known what to expect. The rest of the Them hadn’t paid them any mind, but Adam had stopped, dropped his ball, and with the strange casualness that only the son of the devil could accomplish, had said, “Hullo Crowley. Hullo Aziraphale. Fancy seeing you ‘round here.”

Strange indeed.

This time around Adam and the Them were seated around an outdoor patio of a small restaurant. How a bunch of eleven year old children managed to request a table, order food and pay for it was beyond Aziraphale’s understanding, so he just didn’t question it. Adam worked in mysterious ways. The boy’s feet were dangling off the end of the chair and he was idly kicking them, lips curled around a straw and gulping down a cup of lemonade. When Adam caught sight of the two, idly watching the children from behind the short fence that separated the patio from the walkway, he whispered something to his friends. They simply nodded and walked off down the street, arguing over something silly. Adam waved at them to take one of the many empty seats, still sucking down his drink.

“Come to check up on me, have you?” Adam asked. He hardly bothered with polite greetings these days. They were beyond that. They did save the world together after all. "Making sure I haven't changed my mind about ending the world?"

"Just a social visit," Aziraphale fibbed at the same time Crowley said, "Yes, we are."

Adam's face broke out into an amused smile. "I already told you I don't want the world to end, there’s too many things I like about it. That's all right though, I know you mean well.”

Aziraphale and Crowley both took two empty seats across from the Antichrist, and Aziraphale profusely apologized. “I am sorry Adam, but the state of the world means a great deal to us, you know. You are a splendid boy, however. We trust you, but we just want to make sure you stay on the right path. “

“Yeah, I get it,” Adam said.

“So, tell me, what is new with you?” Aziraphale asked, “Has anything interesting happened lately?”

Adam hummed, tapping a finger to his lips. “Anathema and Newt are still at Jasmine Cottage. They actually got engaged last month. She proposed, of course. Brian's little sister turned seven last week and she announced to the whole party her intention to marry Pepper when she grew up. Got a laugh out of everyone. Wensleydale sprained his ankle playing football the other day. He’s alright though. That's about it, I think. What’s new with you two then?"

Adam’s genuine interest in Aziraphale’s life was always refreshing. Although Aziraphale also had a sneaking suspicion the boy was just nosey and liked to know what everyone was getting up to. 

“We went on a picnic,” Aziraphale said, because it was honestly the only thing he could thing to say. It would hardly be appropriate to tell a child the tawdry details of his relationship with Crowley. “Dined at the Ritz. Not much to do nowadays, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Heaven and Hell have, in a sense, disowned us,” Aziraphale explained, wringing his hands. “We don’t get assignments from them anymore.”

Adam’s face cleared up in understanding. “You’re like free agents then? Shouldn’t that be more fun? You get to do whatever you want without grownups breathing down your back.”

“It’s been rather pleasant, yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Just not, how you might say, _ interesting_.”

“I see.”

Mister Tyler strolled by at that moment, walking his dog and giving Adam the stink eye. Adam smiled back, ignoring the old man’s scowl and waving happily. Mister Tyler barely spared a glance at Crowley or Aziraphale and continued on his way, muttering something about _ ‘damned kids these days’ _and what have you.

Crowley, who up until then had been content to plop down on an empty seat, cross his arms over his chest and say nothing, suddenly sat up and leaned forward. He said, “Say, what do you tell people when we show up? Can’t imagine your parents would be too happy to hear you’re hanging around two grown men by yourself.”

“I just tell everyone you’re my godfathers from London,” Adam waved him off. “No one really bothers to question it.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, feeling his chest grow warm. Godfathers. There was an obvious innuendo in Adam’s little fib that perhaps the boy hadn’t caught on to. Calling them his godfathers gave off the impression that they were in a relationship—which they _ were, _ but telling other people about it had never been something that they’d discussed in any capacity. Aziraphale had to wonder if Crowley would be miffed that people knew about them.

“Thought it was the easiest lie to get away with, since you two are together and all. Looks the most normal,” Adam explained.

_“Oh,”_ Aziraphale repeated, voice a pitch higher. Adam _ had _caught on, it seemed. A glance at Crowley showed Aziraphale that the demon was also slightly flustered by Adam’s candor—and Aziraphale still didn’t know if Crowley was fine with people knowing. God, what a disaster.

Adam squinted at the sudden awkward air coming from Aziraphale and Crowley, and then it was his turn to say, “Oh,” with an uncomfortable realization. “Are you guys not dating? Sorry I just assumed given everything—”

“We are,” Crowley cut in gruffly. “It’s still kind of new.”

Three months was still new to creatures that have walked the earth for thousands of years.

Adam tilted his head. “Really? I would have thought you’d been together for ages. Well, congratulations then. I’m glad you finally got there.”

“Me too,” Crowley responded, and Aziraphale felt the demon’s hand slip into his.

He smiled, staring down at their intertwined fingers and relaxing at the knowledge that Crowley didn’t mind if people they knew happened to know about them. Perhaps Crowley had no desire to shout it from the rooftops, but here, in a small restaurant in Tadfield, telling the Antichrist he was in a relationship with an angel—that was more than enough for Aziraphale to know Crowley was proud of them.

Aziraphale tightened his fingers around Crowley’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just know that even though Aziraphale does think he looks suave and cool, Crowley is just like "OH GOD OH SATAN OH FUCK I'M KISSING HIM HE'S KISSING ME I HOPE I DON'T FUCK THIS UP" in his brain the whole time.


End file.
